Sweat, Blood, and Energon
by Sakon76
Summary: Various short stories in the movie'verse. New: Xenophilia, the love that dare not speak its name, has somewhat inevitable consequences.
1. Solstice

Solstice  
by K. Stonham  
first released 20th June 2008

Earth was a strange planet, packed full of life down to the tiniest microbes in its air and soil, and ruled by its seasons. It seemed--and to an extent was--crowded and chaotic. In comparison, Cybertron had been calm, ordered, and austere. Still, since leaving home Optimus had seen many strange worlds filled with curious races and other, non-sentient, forms of life, and at least Earth, in the achingly familiar shape of its humans, and in their tendency to build ordered cities of stone and steel, held an echo of a world that was now dead.

The sun blazed above the Californian soil and the plant and animal life it nourished, both somewhat dry and brown now from a lack of precipitation. Though still a newcomer to this planet and unfamiliar with the cycles and systems of its life, this much Optimus knew: its lifeforms depended on water, and it was scarce where he stood. Somewhat ironically, other parts of the same nation flooded while this one entered drought. "Too much of a good thing," Judy Witwicky had called it prosaically, watering her wisteria and hydrangea plants with what she called "gray water" that she'd used previously to wash dishes. "It never rains but it pours." Then, shading her eyes, she'd looked up at the cloudless blue sky with a sigh. "Or, sometimes, not."

He hadn't fully understood the saying but had gathered its gist, something akin to the universal rule the humans called "Murphy's Law." Autobots knew the same thing but called it by other names... most popularly, "Wheeljack's Axiom." Troubles seldom came singly, but rather all at once. And tended to result in explosions.

He wondered if there was some way that future flood waters might be better distributed. Optimus himself was no scientist, but it seemed to him that there _ought_ to be _some_ way... perhaps if Perceptor had survived and heard his call, he might set the scientist to the problem. He would ask Ratchet his thoughts on the matter but knew already what the medic would say: "It's not my area, Prime." Which was fair enough; while being a medic gave Ratchet an arm and leg up on Earth's technology, he certainly couldn't be expected to have expertise in problems their planet hadn't even exhibited.

Cybertron... had barely _had_ an axial tilt in its rotations. Its weather certainly hadn't been as subject to the vagaries of seasons as Earth was. In fact, the most "weather" it had had were the occasional mercury mists rising off the Silver Sea. Well, until Megatron's machinations had upset their silicon world's balance and the acid rains had begun, killing almost as many as the Decepticons themselves.

Earth, despite coincidentally also having a region named "Silicon Valley," was nothing like home.

He breathed a sigh--a human mannerism, many of which were almost distressingly easy to fall into--and opened his hand to reveal the shard of the AllSpark. It gleamed soft pewter in the harsh sunlight, a shattered fragment of that had once been whole and most sacred. Looking at it like this, desecrated and profane, hurt. The Matrix within his chest, containing the wisdom of every Prime before him, back to Primus himself, twinged in an echo of his pain.

Was it right for him to use the artifact in this way?

So many had fallen in their war; why should Jazz be placed before them? a part of himself argued. But logic, cool and calm and sounding disturbingly like Prowl, replied that the bodies of others had been lost, or unsalvageable... and Jazz was here, repaired and needing only the restoration of his spark to live again. And Jazz, logic also argued, was one of the vital components of their army. Though they'd long since been scattered to the distant stars, Jazz had been a communications 'bot and kept in contact with other teams through skill and perseverance and no little amount of need. Jazz had, and made, friends _everywhere_. If he passed up the chance to bring his first lieutenant back, Optimus knew, there would be no few mechs and aliens who would be seriously slagged off at him... and hurting. The pain of his Autobots was the single thing he'd always hated most. And for a third reason, as if these things needed to come in triumvirates, he needed Jazz. Bumblebee was currently their expert on human culture, but he was busy with his own assignment and couldn't always be advising Optimus on what was going on unspoken with their allies. Jazz, with his impressive processor power and natural aptitude for flexibility and adaptation, would be invaluable.

So he would do this and pray the AllSpark would be able to bring back his friend. He'd listened to the whispers of the Matrix and waited to act. Waited for Jazz's repairs to be complete. And then waited more. It hadn't been entirely coincidence, the Matrix whispered to him, that the native disguise his lieutenant had chosen was called a "Solstice." It was a concept emblematic of Jazz himself and the extremes to which he lived. Closest to the sun and furthest away. Most brilliant mind and most disrespectful attitude. More loyal than any other Autobot, but the most similar in design to a Decepticon. Friends with everyone, yet remaining an enigma.

Wait, the Matrix had said. Wait for the solstice.

He'd thought about where he should make the attempt. Dodger Stadium, where Jazz had first touched the planet? The car dealership where he'd found his "stylish" alt mode? Mission City, where he'd died? On this matter, the Matrix had been silent, and Optimus had eventually concluded that the _where_ didn't matter so much as the _when_. So in the end, he'd chosen simply to make the attempt at the base the United States had given them for their own, tucked away in the folding hills to the northeast of Los Angeles.

"Please," he prayed, to the AllSpark or the Matrix or the Primes who had come before, "let this work." Turning to the still silver form that Ratchet had laid reverently on the Earth, he knelt and placed the remaining shard of their hope on Jazz's chest.

It lay there gleaming for a long moment.

Just as the spark of hope started to fail, the shard glowed electric blue and liquidified, slipping through Jazz's two grill panels.

The humans, gathered in a loose circle at a safe range, held their breaths. The Autobots, somewhat closer, were still, not moving a servo.

Jazz's optics lit, brightening his visor from black to cobalt.

With a feral snarl, he leapt at the nearest figure, which was Ironhide. The two of them wrestled for a few seconds as the humans and other Autobots moved backward, giving them room. Eventually Ironhide, older and taller and heavier, ended up on top, pointing a plasma cannon straight into Jazz's face. "You going to yield?" he asked quietly. "Or should I just shoot?"

Jazz stilled. "Ironhide?" he asked.

Ironhide snorted. "Don't tell me you thought I was that fragger Megatron."

"No chance," Jazz retorted. "You're a thousand times uglier."

Ratchet snorted. "It's him," he opined, rolling his optics. "Let him up."

Ironhide hauled off of Jazz and pulled the formerly-deceased first lieutenant to his feet. "Welcome back," Ironhide greeted him.

"Back?" Jazz looked around himself, and Optimus could almost see the confusion slowly starting to seep in. He smiled just a little. For once, he had a slight edge up on his right-hand mech. It would doubtless disappear as soon as Jazz had received an explanation, but for now he let himself enjoy the rare feeling.

Solstice. The closest to heat and summer and life... and the closest to cold and winter and death. Sometimes, tangentially and through the Matrix, Optimus could almost grasp the threads of the universe and the reasoning behind them. There was an order to the universe, even if he didn't always understand it.

"Welcome back," he said, grateful. "My friend."

*~*~*

Author's Note: So I finally did it and joined in on bringing Jazz back. Baaa. This was written for the last summer's solstice, so the weather information isn't quite accurate to today's.


	2. Splinters

Splinters  
by K. Stonham  
first released 1st April 2008

"Right," Will said, looking up at the truck's undercarriage. "You've got something stuck up in there but good."

"Will you please stop talking and get. It. Out," Ironhide griped.

"Hold your horses," Will retorted, tugging on the heavy leather gloves that had previously laid on his stomach. He flicked on his maglight and clenched it in his teeth as he felt around in the transformed robot's internals. "Geez, what'd you do?" he asked, slurring his words around the flashlight. "Run over a tree?"

"None of your business," Ironhide retorted.

Will rolled his eyes and concentrated until he found what felt like the thickest part of the branch. "What did I tell you about off-roading?" he asked rhetorically. "Hold still," he instructed, gripping and yanking as best he could from his admittedly suboptimal position.

"That fragging hurts!" Ironhide bellowed.

"Shut it," Will bit out around the flashlight. "You bitch worse than my daughter when she got her shots."

Ironhide _whined_ as the greenery slowly shifted under the pressure Will exerted on it, until it finally moved, and then came out all at once, nearly impaling Will as it did so.

He blinked, wiping the sweat of exertion off his forehead, then plucked the light from between his teeth. "Better?" he asked.

Ironhide rumbled, sounding for all the world like a distant thunderstorm. "That seems to be the worst of it," he admitted.

"You're welcome," Will retorted, and started wiggling out from underneath the Autobot-turned-truck.

"You," Ironhide muttered lowly, "are--"

*~*~*

"--worse than Ratchet," Bumblebee swore.

"Quit your bitching," Sam replied, examining the three-inch-long nail held in the pair of pliers he wielded. He looked up at his friend. "That it," he asked, "or do I need to check your other tires too?"

"That feels like it," the Cybertronian replied, absently flexing the elbow where the tire was located.

"I told you to go under the limit in the neighborhood," Sam reminded him. "I told you old man Druthers salts the road with nails. But did you listen to me? Noooo. I've only lived here all my life."

"All right! I'll drive more slowly from now on," Bumblebee replied. "On surface streets, at least," he added.

Sam grinned, and looked at the nail again. "You win," he said. "Biggest splinter I ever got was only an inch long. Took forever for my mom to get it out, too. Hurt like a sonuvabitch."

"Hmm." Bumblebee leaned back against the wall of the garage, careful lest it failed under his weight. "Camping?" he asked.

"Worse. Second grade playground," Sam answered. "The jungle gym was made out of wood back then."

"Proportionately, you still win," Bumblebee said thoughtfully.

"Proportions have nothing to do with it," Sam replied. "Miles got a nail this size through his foot once. His neighbors were having their roof redone and Miles and his mom kept finding nails in their backyard for months afterwards. He still has the scar."

"Ouch," Bumblebee said sympathetically.

"Yup. He still has the nail as a trophy too."

Bumblebee eyed the nail in Sam's hand. "I'll pass."


	3. Executioner

Executioner  
by K. Stonham  
first released 7th March 2009

He should feel guilty, Sam knows. He killed another living, thinking being. (Okay, not him; it was the Cube. But that was splitting hairs the same as the someone saying that guns killed people. It had been a weapon, and he'd known it would kill Optimus, and he'd been the one to use it on Megatron instead. So his was the finger that pulled the trigger.) It was murder. Or was it murder? He spends an afternoon in the library looking up legal definitions because he doesn't want any government people or Autobots tapping his computer to find out what he's looking at.

Not premeditated, he concludes. Much. They'd probably call it voluntary manslaughter in the courts. But it was murder nonetheless, no matter what crap Simmons spouts about "They're just machines, you know. It's all preprogrammed. They don't feel a thing, not the way we do." Sam knows better, and Simmons is a brainless ass.

One part of him wants to argue about the morality of murdering Hitler. Another wants to weep for the fact that he killed Optimus' _brother_.

But he remembers the voice echoing after him, calling him "Maggot!" and offering to let him live in exchange for selling out not only his own species, but the Autobots as well.

In the end, even though he knows he should, Sam doesn't feel guilty at all.

Sad, but not guilty.


	4. Pastel Sparkles

Pastel Sparkles  
by K. Stonham  
first released 28th August 2008

"Grimlock does not need stupid hologram generator!" The roar echoed through the corridors of the Ark.

"Do not want, do not want!" Swoop parodied his team's leader. "Grimlock sounds like a LOLcat."

The theropodian robot glared at his medical officer. "Am not stupid Earth feline!"

Venting in exasperation, Ratchet hooked his digits into a seam at the surly tyrannosaur's collarbone, and yanked him down. "You will be fitted with a hologram generator," he informed the Dinobot, "one, because you need to be able to communicate with the natives in a non-threatening manner; two, because it will make exploration of smaller enclosed areas much more convenient for you, giving you an edge on Soundwave's cassettes; three, _because I said so_."

The Dinobot was silent for a moment, his large tail swishing back and forth, then finally he muttered "Not care so much about stupid humans... but makes crushing Ravage easier, Grimlock can live with."

"Good." Ratchet released his patient. "Then transform. Swoop, you can help me with this if you want."

* * *

Mikaela was present (on a counter and well out of the way) the first time Grimlock used his shiny new hologram generator to simulate a human.

"Grimlock has scanned puny human communications network and compiled ultimate human form," he announced proudly. Mikaela refrained from rolling her eyes or mentioning "the Governator" aloud, but she was pretty sure that Grimlock's hologram wasn't going to be too far off Schwarzenneger's bodybuilding days. She'd been told that Grimlock wasn't actually all brawn, no brains... but she'd yet to see proof.

(If the car-shaped 'bots used their holograms for driving around inconspicuously, she wondered, would Grimlock try the same thing and end up a Dino-Rider?)

Grimlock activated his projector and in a shimmer of silver-white light, the hologram formed at his feet.

Mikaela's eyes flew wide and she hastily stuffed a fist into her mouth to keep from laughing. The Dinobots did _not_ like to be laughed at. Grimlock's hologram was short, slender, and had wide, limpid eyes. A delicate blush stained his pale cheeks as long lashes fluttered against them. Softly waving blond hair framed a face that was, well... feminine.

She could almost imagine flower petals and pastel sparkles behind him.

Then he _spoke_. "Well, what you think?" he asked in Grimlock's rough, low voice.

She nearly doubled over trying not to laugh.

"A very interesting choice, Grimlock," Optimus Prime said mildly.

Slag poked at the hologram. "Grimlock is tiny."

The hologram swatted the robotic finger away. "Slag's processor made of beryllium baloney!"

Another finger approached the hologram, Sludge stroking the soft blond hair. "Grimlock so _pretty_," he murmured. Mikaela toppled over to her side, holding her stomach in an attempt to not giggle madly aloud.

"And Sludge's made of cesium salami!" Grimlock declared.

"Excuse me!" Snarl pushed his way through the other Dinobots, holding a polished metal basin that served as well as a mirror. He held it out wordlessly before the hologram, who stopped and examined his reflection.

"That... me?" Grimlock asked eventually. Snarl nodded. With a roar of rage, the Dinobot's hologram dissolved. "Who hacked new projector?!" he demanded, glaring at all the assembled Autobots.

In the end it proved to be Sideswipe's doing, of course, and landed him three weeks in the brig, as much to protect him from Grimlock's wrath as to teach him a lesson. Mikaela visited the miscreant frequently during this period and couldn't help agreeing with him that the prank had been worth the punishment.

* * *

Author's Note: This is why I shouldn't have conversations with Hoshikage. They tend to inspire horrifying phrases like "bishounen Grimlock" and then I have to write them.


	5. Fearless

Fearless  
by K. Stonham  
first released 31st October 2008

Humans. So tiny. So fragile. There were hundreds of thousands of ways for them to be damaged by things from their own planet, let alone visitors from another one. It was, Optimus reflected, surely nothing short of a miracle from Primus himself that their species had survived this long.

He reined the thought in, immediately recognizing that he was doing their new allies a disservice by categorizing them as smaller/weaker/lesser. That was, after all, exactly what Megatron had done. What Megatron had been doing, in fact, for thousands of vorns. It was a flaw of character that had worked to the Autobots' collective advantage. A blind spot, as the human saying went.

But whatever the humans lacked in durability, Optimus thought, they made up for in other ways. Numbers. Determination. Ingenuity.

Fearlessness.

That thought, too, was probably doing them a disservice, but as he looked back through the night at the temporarily vouched Quonset hut behind him, at the golden light spilling upon the black pavement and the two teenagers playing poker with Bumblebee and Ratchet, cards that were overlarge for the humans' hands being grasped quite delicately by his scout and medic, he wondered if it wasn't also an accurate thought. Neither Sam nor Mikaela had been afraid of their guardian, according to Bumblebee, or the other Autobots, from the very start.

Megatron's mocking voice, caught at the very edge of audio sensors, demanding whether it had been fear or courage that moved Sam.

He shook his head. As with so many things, Optimus thought his brother had preferred the wrong conclusion. If half of the Decepticons had been half as brave as the humans Optimus had met... well, it might have gone very, very badly for the Autobots. How odd that a species which could complain so annoyingly about a "papercut" (much like Sunstreaker or Tracks "bitching" about a mar on their respective finishes, now that he thought about it) could stand so firm in the face of annihilation and still think on their feet. It was a fascinating contradiction and complexity.

That sparked a different chain of thought and he looked back at the quartet again. Slowly, a smile formed on his face. The humans, seeing no differences in essence, only in frame... and the Autobots, only too aware of that difference in frame, but definitely regarding the other species as no lesser.

Yes. As the humans said, this might be the start of a beautiful friendship.


	6. Three Things About Sam

**Three Things About Sam**  
by K. Stonham  
first released May 19th, 2011

(1) Sam likes smart girls. In fact, he unfailingly likes girls he thinks are smarter than he is. Hot bodies and gorgeous faces are, of course, a plus (he is a red-blooded young man, after all), but what it always comes back to is not the size of a girl's bra, but the size of her IQ.

This is not because he enjoys feeling stupid (he leaves that to the jocks), but because Samuel James Witwicky has realized early and instinctively a fundamental rule of the universe: smart is sexy.

(2) Sam will never once in his entire life do drugs. This statement should be qualified to exclude over the counter prescriptions, the various painkillers he ends up on when in a hospital or under Ratchet's tender care, and any number of Red Bull clones he consumes during finals weeks. But anything illegal, ranging from weed to excessive alcohol to the hard substances that make drug lords wealthy... quite simply, Sam doesn't see the appeal.

This distaste for chemical mutilation of his own body does not stem from being taken into the Pasadena police station and made to watch the "this is your brain on drugs" video by Officer Nimwit at age seventeen. Nor does it stem from his humiliating first day of college, watching his mother high as a kite from a doctored brownie. No, Sam's lack of interest in drugs comes from the simple fact that he doesn't need them.

When your car already talks back to you, you consort with aliens on a regular basis, and you've pretty much had to decide to roll with the wierdness the universe regularly dumps on you, mind-altering substances seem kind of redundant.

(3) Sam comes from a culture that praises the average. All men are created equal. Safety in numbers. Go with the crowd.

The nail that sticks up gets hammered down.

Despite this indoctination from birth, Sam also comes from a line of great men and women. His ancestors fill history books. Or, in some cases, write them. The fact that this fire has been muted in recent generations does not mean it does not still flow in his veins, or that his destiny would not have been shaped by it.

No matter what he had been taught to aspire to, or even had he lived in a world where he never came into contact with giant robotic aliens, Samuel James Witwicky would never have lived an ordinary life.

* * *

A/N: Mostly inspired by musings about what Mikaela and Carly have in common. And (for the last section) my own personal headcanon that Judy's dad is Henry Jones III, also played by Shia... so Sam runs short on normal ancestors on either side of his family tree.


	7. Washer & Dryer

**Washer & Dryer**  
by K. Stonham  
first released 22nd September 2011

Judy picked mutely through the detrius of her son's room. Oh, Sam might bitch and moan about his privacy being invaded, but she'd certainly never heard any complaints about his dirty underwear being returned to him, clean, dry, and neatly folded!

Dropping the last set of jeans atop the mound in her laundry basket, she made her way downstairs, pausing to look out the bay window into the backyard, where her son was enthusiastically washing and waxing the alien robot that was masquerading as his Camaro.

She pursed her lips.

Judy wasn't exactly _thrilled_ about the whole aliens thing, but at least Bumblebee seemed innocuous. (Here she mentally snorted to herself; the sixteen-foot metal alien was a creampuff only in comparison to that black cannon-toting menace Captain Lennox had taken a shine to! Though Judy had rather admired the Autobot medic's acerbic wit and biting tongue. Ratchet, she thought, would have made an excellent parent.) Still, Bumblebee seemed entirely devoted to Sam and Mikaela's safety, and that put him in Judy's good graces for the time being. As long as he kept out of her flowerbeds.

Turning, she headed toward the laundry room and there sorted clothing into piles of light and dark. She hesitated over Sam's shirt and the jeans that he'd worn during that horrible battle in downtown Las Vegas. They were ripped to shreds, but teenage boys were weird about things like that, and he'd probably pitch a fit if she just threw them away. Sighing, Judy tossed them into the washer, followed by his hoodie, closed the door, poured in the detergent, and pressed start. She wandered away to make lunch, pondering for the umpteenth time if there was any way she could contrive to destroy Ron's worn and stained "lucky" high school jersey. It hadn't fit him for years, no matter what he thought. Maybe if she made it into a pillow...?

Like father, like son, she thought, closing the door to the laundry room and opening the one to the refrigerator.

* * *

After a moment of the hissing spray of water, the washer gave a slow _wrluug_ as its basket turned over for the first time, spilling clothing into warm soapy water. And another. And another, as it picked up speed.

Generally, wet clothing doesn't possess a great amount of static electricity, so it must have been another type of energy that crackled blue through the metal and plastic and glass. It emanated from one of the pieces of clothing, a soiled brown jersey on whose threads had snagged a small shard of alien metal that was more than met the eye.

Miniature lightning arcs licked through and around the washer and its neighboring companion the dryer until, abruptly, the washer stopped.

And stood up.

Blinking new-crafted optics, it looked around the small white room, then at the the squat dryer standing next to it.

It gave the square shape a shove. "Hey, wake up, bro!" the washer ordered.

The dryer transformed.

* * *

Applying mustard to slices of bread, Judy frowned. The washer noise had stopped. Was something wrong?

She stepped fast to the laundry room-she did _not_ want a repeat of the old, leaky washer flooding the floor!-and opened the door.

After a moment looking at the arguing, tussling robots (who completely ignored her), she quietly closed the door again.

Very, very calmly, she walked to the patio door. She kept a smile firmly plastered on her face all the way as she went outside and looked at the teenage boy and his now gleaming muscle car.

Consorting with aliens and their leaders. For just an instant she let herself be so proud of her baby boy.

Then she remembered the scene in her laundry room.

"SAMUEL JAMES WITWICKY!"

He flinched and stared at her wide-eyed.

"You will get those aliens OUT of my washing room, and you will contact your friends in the military to take them away, and they will _replace_ my washer and dryer with new ones, and in the meantime you _will_ rescue my laundry!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Because, really, it never made sense to me that Sam (or more especially, Judy) would not have washed that garment in the two years between movie one and RotF. And if you think the washer and dryer turned into Skids and Mudflap, well, you would be correct. Edited by my Wonderful Husband.


	8. Disquiet Night

**Disquiet Night  
-or-  
Five Things The Autobots Found Disturbing About Earth**  
by K. Stonham  
first released 1st December 2011

(1) **Naivete**

Jazz admitted, if only to himself, that what he was downloading off the blue planet's communications system made him nervous. The dominant sentient species was painfully young and ignorant. And like the children of any species, they were equal parts innocence and cruelty.

The humans weren't even sure yet if there were others besides themselves in the universe. That lack of certainty made them fearful. And what they feared, what they didn't understand, they sought to destroy. Jazz found far too many references to bug-eyed monsters and alien invasions to set his mind at ease regarding a successful first contact.

(2) **Strife**

Cybertron had a long and glorious history of science, discovery, exploration, and innovation. Its two wars, one still ongoing, were the only flaws the Archives had held.

Thus it was that Optimus found Earth's history to be extremely disturbing. Rather than the relative harmony that had ruled Cybertron for ages immemorable, Earth's history, no matter the nation, was a constant listing of conqueror and conquered. Bully and victim. Plague and death.

And the humans thought this was _normal_.

How could a species who gave birth to such sterling examples of dignity and kindness be the same that committed such atrocities?

(3) **Water**

Ironhide watched the waves roll in, lapping at the beach. He could feel the moisture, the salt, collecting in his intakes. He barely managed not to shudder.

Of all the planets in all the galaxies, why did the Allspark have to land on _this_ one?

Everyone knew water corroded. Watching the humans swim in the vile substance made him fritz. But they were part of this planet; they were made to endure it.

Ironhide was not.

And he'd lost too many friends to outbreaks of cosmic rust to ever be happy about living in the middle of a slagging ocean.

(4) **Fragility**

The humans simply didn't build up to Cybertronian standards. There was, Ratchet admitted, no previous need for them to; they built, sensibly enough, to their own requisite specs.

He'd been quiet about it. Polite. (Despite what everyone thought, his diplomacy programming _hadn't_ been deleted during the course of the war.)

But the first time one of his patients shredded his restraints and destroyed the human-built medbay on his delirious way out, Ratchet decided he had to put his foot down. Dealing with fighting in the warrens of human cities was bad enough. No more of this pathetic tissue paper construction.

(5) **Ephemerality**

Humans died.

Humans died so _easily_.

Nothing on their planet lived long. Even the most ancient and revered of their trees or fungi were centuries younger than Bumblebee.

And the humans, for all their wit and nerve and dogged determination, were there and then gone in the blink of a Cybertronian optic.

He tried not to love them too hard, his Sam and Mikaela, but couldn't help it. And knowing, dreading, that he would lose them all too soon, he tried desperately not to mourn them while they were still alive.

Because he knew that losing them would shatter him.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Five drabbles based on the first and second movies. Mainly coming from the thought that, as Epps put it in RotF, "If God made us in His image, who made them?" Humans, even allies, can find Autobots discomforting; I suspect that our species repays the favor.


	9. Sexual Singularity

**Sexual Singularity**  
by K. Stonham  
first released 25th January 2012

The sniping was growing tiresome. Which generally meant the combatants were less than five minutes from either storming off in separate directions, or were about to grab one another and initiate one of their vile little organic mating rituals in front of everyone. Which, fine, Sideswipe had bothered comprehending as little as possible of the human biology downloads Ratchet forced on every new Autobot arrival, but he did _get_ that they were a different species and different things tweaked their battery wires.

But did they have to be so _wet_ about it?

He shuddered in distaste as Simmons and Mearing finally went for option B and their mouths fastened together with a sucking, slurping sound that went down Sideswipe's backstruts entirely the wrong way. It was actually kind of funny how fast the room cleared now that the primary sources of noise were connected at the mouth. Sideswipe wished he could drive away, but he still had sensors attached all over him and NEST's budget had been pounded into his head by Ratchet, Lennox, _and_ Prime the last time he'd cut out in the middle of tests.

"Oh, man, that's just wrong," Epps said, leaning against Sideswipe's driver's side door.

"You're telling me." Epps was squishy too, but at least he and Theresa kept their displays of intimacy to themselves and well out of Sideswipe's view. "Why can't your species keep your mating habits to yourselves?" Trolling the human internet was a better mental agility course than anything the Autobots had devised to date. The humans splattered sex all over the medium; it was nearly impossible to avoid stepping in some. Chocolates and roses were one thing; anything that required a condom was another.

Epps shrugged. "Humans got a healthy sex drive."

"_In public_," Sideswipe groused. "No wonder there are billions of you." Simmons had hoisted Mearing onto a nearby table and she wrapped her limbs around him like she was a Quintesson. Sideswipe almost wondered if they were having a contest to see who could eat the other's face off first. He was so glad he wasn't Ratchet and didn't have the sensor suite to deal with their human pheremones at a hundred paces. A hundred _Cybertronian_ paces. "Even Nebulans keep stuff like that private!"

"Sometimes, I think we should too," Epps muttered. His tone was beginning to get a bit queasy as he continued watching. When Mearing's hand worked its way under Simmons' shirt and clearly tweaked a nipple, he finally straightened. "That's it," he said in a low tone. "YOU TWO!" the man bellowed. "GET A ROOM!"

Without missing a beat, both Mearing and Simmons flipped him off. But Simmons hoisted Mearing off the table, her skirt still hiked up with her legs wrapped firmly around his waist, and marched them off, presumably to find a room. Sideswipe didn't want to know which one, or what they were going to do in it. He hoped he never found out. He might have to kill whoever told him, and then beg Ratchet for a CPU wipe.

"That," Graham said, stepping out into the open from where he'd been hiding since the moment the make-out session started, "was one of the most disturbing things I've seen since I joined NEST." His teabag floated, seemingly forgotten, in his mug, staining the hot water deeper as the British human stared after the disappearing pair.

"You said it," Epps agreed.

"I am so glad I'm single," Sideswipe added.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Written for the LiveJournal Flesh_and_Steel community's "Screw 'Em, I'm Glad I'm Single" writing challenge. I loathe DotM with the fiery passion of a thousand suns, but when I tried to come up with a pairing that would make someone glad they were single, Simmons and Mearing came up as the funniest idea in my head. Hope y'all enjoyed.


	10. Anthrophilia

This much was true: Sam adored his car, his guardian, his friend from the stars, and would do anything for him.

This much was obvious: Bumblebee returned the boy's devotion. Their fast friendship was unique in the annals of Autobot interaction with other sentient lifeforms.

This much was secret: among humans, interspecies relations were even more taboo than interracial ones had once been. And while Cybertronians understood love, they had nothing like sex. But despite the differences of frame and form, and the limitations imposed by size and construction, the two had steadily worked at undermining all the odds that seemed against them.

**Anthrophilia**  
by K. Stonham  
first released 14th December 2007

One hundred and thirty-eight years after his species had first encountered human beings, he stood on the surface of the Earth's moon, and gazed at the gem-like planet which was now home to his kind as well as theirs. He was alone in the viewing gallery, and, to be honest, he was more comfortable that way.

There was a word in his language, one which shocked rooms and conversations into silence and prompted brawls, fistfights, and duels. It was not a word transmitted lightly. There had been no equivalent for it in any human language, as it was not a concept their species had ever needed. "Anthrophilia," Ratchet had once translated it roughly into English, in a private room with a few cubes of high-grade littered around them both. "From Latin, as so many English words are. 'Anthro' meaning 'human,' and 'philia' meaning 'love of.' Anthrophiliac, as applied to an individual."

Human-lover.

Ratchet's optics and voice had been gentle, and kind, and sad for him, something not often seen from the generally cranky and terse Autobot CMO. It was in a way a tragedy in the happening, both of them had known. Entirely aside from differences of size and frame and construction, which should have rendered any relationship impossible, there was the sheer matter of _scale_. Humans died so quickly, passing on in barely the blink of a Cybertronian optic. He'd known that. Everyone had. Save a death in a Decepticon attack, he would outlive the human he'd cared for. By so, so very long...

It hadn't mattered. One could not simply choose where one's spark lay.

Only a few knew of it for sure, and he'd found over time who his true friends were. There were those who laughed in derision or scorn like Ironhide and the twins... and those who smiled sadly at him, as his leader and Ratchet did, and those precious, precious few who bristled on his behalf and fought back the slurs with words or fists.

After his human had died at last of old age, something not even the finest doctor could prevent, he'd come here, to this base on the moon where there were more of the latter than of the former. Where he wouldn't have to feel asphalt beneath his tires and be conscious always of the slight weight that he no longer carried.

Still, on the offshifts when no careless camaraderie from Bluestreak or Blaster could break the sorrow of his loss and difference from his comrades, and when the pleasured sounds of overload coming from the rooms next to his as Prowl drove Jazz into raw sonic _screaming_ became too much to bear, Bumblebee retreated to this gallery where he could look at the Earth and replay memories and music, remembering the human that he had loved and lost.

Remembering his Sam.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hmm, think this turned out better in my head while gnawing at me. Nonetheless, one of the problems in human/Autobot relations will always be that of relative longevity. As to why Jazz is alive again in this, I have no idea. I blame the PxJ muse.


End file.
